A Sterkarm Kiss

by Susan Price

  Gareth waved a hand as he listened to the buzzing in his ear. “Elven stopped fighting. They—used Elf-Work. Now they’ve rounded Sterkarms up and driven them away in Elf-Carts. And they’re sending more Elf-Carts to carry you and wounded back to your tower.”

  As he spoke, they heard the grinding sound of Elf-Carts approaching the hall.

  Davy’s dark eyes glittered—with fear, but also with fierceness. “Elven said we would be safe at wedding.”

  “We didna ken what would happen,” Gareth said. “There’s nothing to fear now. I swear.”

  There was a silence in the hall as most of the Grannams waited to hear what their leaders would decide; but there was fear in the air. From outside came the sound of engines dying and the shouts of men. Davy bared his teeth in a grin that had no amusement in it.

  Mistress Crosar got stiffly to her feet. Limping a little, cramped from having sat so long, she moved toward the entrance. Davy immediately held out an arm to block her way, but she pushed it aside, saying, “Someone mun look. Master Elf! Come with me.”

  Several of her men started forward, following her closely, ready to defend her if need be. Gareth had to dodge them and push past them to be beside Mistress Crosar when she reached the entrance. With relief he saw the big Elf-Carts outside and the men getting out of them. One, seeing him, gave him a sort of salute, raising one finger to his cap.

  Cautiously Mistress Crosar peered to either side of the hall’s entrance. Seeing nothing but Elf-Carts and Elves—no sign of any Sterkarms—she ventured a step outside. Men, armed with clubs and axes, followed her.

  The great Elf-Hall loomed about them. Most of the Elf-Lamps still burned, though dimly now full daylight was near. Color was just coming into the grass, and into the shining metal of the Elf-Carts. Clothing lay scattered about—fallen or lost helmets, dropped weapons, lost boots—as well as trampled food and broken wreaths. At a distance a man lay, so still that he was probably dead. Everything was quiet. No one seemed to be fighting anymore. Despite the presence of the Elves the camp felt deserted.

  Mistress Crosar raised her voice, shouting to the Elf-Man standing beside the cart. “Truly, have Sterkarms ganned?”

  Gareth quickly translated what she said. The man waved an arm at the hills and moor emerging from darkness. “All cleared off.”

  “Taking their loot with them,” Mistress Crosar said, when Gareth told her. “And my niece.” Her men were silent. They were half afraid of her, because she had such cause for grief and yet seemed so calm.

  “Filthy, backbiting animals!” she said. “All their fine words and smiles as empty as air! Treachery be very beat of their hearts. They sweat and piss treachery!”

  “Aye,” said Davy. “But what do we do, Lady? Do we trust Elven?”

  She was shocked to be asked. He knew, surely, far better than she what they ought to be doing. But Davy was her brother’s man, and her brother was dead, or near death. She was their leader for now. Davy had to be seen to ask her what they should do, even if he had already decided.

  She felt helpless. I want my brother to be alive, she thought, to tell us what to do—though she had often argued with him when he had been alive. But then the orders and the blame had been his, not hers. Now if she gave the wrong orders, she alone would be to blame.

  It would be easy to tell Davy to do as he thought best—but no. Clasping her hands before her, she tried to think clearly, without being distracted by thoughts of the terrified children and the wounded. I want my niece back safe, she thought. I want the Sterkarms dead—but no, no. What should they do now?

  “I think—” she began, and then stopped herself. These anxious people didn’t want to hear her doubts. They wanted to be told, without doubt, what to do. Her own fears told her that. Lifting her head, she said, “Master Elf! What is to be done here?”

  “Why—only that we put as many people as we can into the carts, and then we take them back to the tower, where they’ll be safe.”

  Davy gave a brief laugh. “You think Sterkarms’ll leave us be now?”

  “That’s why we mun get you back to tower,” Gareth said.

  Davy turned from him in disgust.

  “We have many wounded,” Mistress Crosar said. “Put them in carts—and bairns. They gan slowly, these carts—Davy, thou’ll walk beside them.”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “I shall walk too,” said Mistress Crosar.

  “Nay—”

  “I shall walk,” she repeated. “I am not hurt. Give my place to someone who needs it.” She turned and went back into the hall. Gareth hurried after her.

  “We gan home,” she said, to everyone, looking around. “In Elf-Carts.”

  Everyone stared, and no one spoke. “Make bairns ready.” Stooping to a child near her, she said firmly, “Thou mun no be feared. Elven be friends. And thou mun be quiet as we gan, dost understand?” The child shrank back behind its mother. “Everybody mun be quiet.” She looked around at the women. They waited for whatever she would say next. “Gan now—take bairns to carts.” They looked at one another to see who would make the first move. Mistress Crosar clapped her hands sharply. “Gan now! Gan!” She waved her hand at the nearest woman, who guiltily and hastily grabbed a child’s hands and started for the doorway. The others all moved after her.

  Gareth found, with a start, that Mistress Crosar was looking at him. “Master Elf. Will you come with us, or will you stay?”

  “Ah.” Tempting thoughts of the Tube’s nearness came to him again, but he stifled them. He had a job to do. “I’ll come with you. If I may.” Maybe the worst was over. Maybe it would be okay from now on. He tried to put thoughts of angry, marauding bands of Sterkarms out of his head.

  Mistress Crosar nodded her head graciously and walked past him to the bloodied bed where her brother lay. She stood looking down at him. Tears stung and pressed behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Tears softened. Keeping them within fed the grief and the rage. Before she wept for her brother, she would laugh over the bodies of the Sterkarms.

  Per’s eyes flooded with tears. Tears poured down his face as if he’d emptied a helmet of water over his head. His lashes were glued together with sticky tears. When he tried to see, he was peering through water, and his eyes burned and smarted. Against his will, they closed and poured more water, while his breath came harder and harder.

  He was shoved and staggered by pressing, moaning people who were also blind and breathless, reaching out and grabbing with their hands. He didn’t know if they were friends or Grannams, and he couldn’t see where his father had been standing before he’d fallen. He couldn’t tell if he was still heading that way or if he’d been turned around in his blindness. He wanted to yell with frustration but choked.

  Hands grasped his upper arms, hauling him upright. He lashed out with the dagger in his hand, kicked, tried to strike his attackers with his head—but they could evidently see him, and he couldn’t see them. His arm was pinioned and the dagger taken from his hand. “Olla rikti—all right,” a man’s voice, rather muffled, yelled at him in the accent of the Elves. But he didn’t trust any he couldn’t see and kicked again, weakly, because he was breathless and his chest was so tight, it hurt to breathe. He was hauled along so rapidly that his feet dragged over the rough ground, and he couldn’t get them under him.

  There was a growling, purring noise that he recognized as the sound of an Elf-Cart, and the stink that was distinctive of them. He was shoved against the cart—he could feel its vibration and its hard metal edges. He heard others near him, sobbing and wheezing. Were they Sterkarms or Grannams or Elves?

  “Up! Up!” Elf-Voices were saying, and shoving at him, and pulling at his arms from above. Eventually, just so they’d stop pestering him, he made the effort to haul himself into the cart, though his lungs felt as if they would burst. He was pushed into a seat, and someone else thumped a
gainst him as they were pushed down next to him.

  All Per could do was mop at the ceaseless tears that ran from his eyes, gasp for breath, and bide his time.

  More and more people were shoved and hauled into the cart. Elves yelled through bangs and crashes. Bright lights flashed across the darkness of his closed and swollen eyes.

  The Elf-Cart moved, lurching and swaying over the rough ground. Per, gripping the edges of his seat, felt panic—where was he being taken, and why and by whom? He tried to draw breath, to demand to know these things, but it was like trying to breathe with lungs of wood—burning wood.

  Bouncing, swaying, the Elf-Cart drew away from the noise of the fight. Cool silence deepened around him, the cries of disturbed birds were clearer. Slowly, the burning in his throat and nose lessened, and his breathing eased. As soon as he could, Per demanded, “Who be there?” His hand found a knee next to him. “Who be this?”

  He was answered by rough gasps, coughs, and splutters—but then a woman’s voice, croaking, said, “Per? Per?”

  “Mammy! Th’art safe?”

  Isobel drew a harsh breath and, despite her cut and aching head, said, “I’m hale. Thine daddy?”

  It was lucky that Per’s breath still came hard. He was about to blurt out that he’d seen his father fall, but breathlessness forced on him time to think. Why tell his mother that, when he still didn’t know for sure what had happened to his father? “I’ve no seen him—hast thou?”

  “Nay, nay,” Isobel gasped.

  “Who be here?” Per asked again. “Who be Sterkarm?”

  From different places in the Elf-Cart came coughs and grunts and whispers of: “Sterkarm—Sterkarm—Sterkarm.” There seemed a good few of them, and if there were any Grannams in the cart, they weren’t admitting it.

  A woman’s voice said, apologetically, “I be an Elf. Andrea Mitchell.”

  Per was puzzled for a moment, and then remembered—the Elf-May, Elf-Windsor’s wedding gift. When the Grannams had attacked—just before he’d seen his father fall—he’d been with her. The memory gave him an unpleasant sensation, like eating something bad.

  “Don’t fret about your eyes,” Andrea said. Her own eyes were still sore and watering, but her breathing was easier, and she spoke as loudly as she could, for everyone in the car to hear. “Elven put something in the air that blinded our eyes.” She spoke as if she wasn’t an Elf herself. “But it will pass. It will pass soon. Then we’ll see just as well as before.”

  “Truly?” Per’s voice asked. He was sitting opposite her.

  “Truly,” she said. “On my honor.” She raised her voice again. “Keep your hands from your eyes, rub them not, and I promise, tears and soreness will soon pass. You will see again, all of you. Elven blinded you—and Grannams—they blinded everyone—to stop fight. They didn’t want any to be killed or hurt. So they blinded everyone, and brought you away in Elf-Carts. But blindness will pass, very soon now.”

  “Grannams attacked us!” Per said. Everyone knew they were treacherous, but the depth of their treachery still astonished him. Treachery was so engrained in them, so bred in the bone and blood, that not even self-interest could hold them back from a cowardly attack while their victims slept. “Where be my father?” he shouted. “Daddy! Toorkild!”

  Andrea felt the people stirring near her, alarmed. She reached to where she thought Per was, touching a knee she hoped was his. “He be safe, Per, I be sure he be safe. He may be in another cart.”

  “Where? I want to see him!”

  Andrea leaned forward, to where she knew the driver of the car would be sitting. Her sight was clearing, though still blurred. She could see the headlights flashing through the darkness, and could make out something of the figures in the front seats. “Do you know how Toorkild Sterkarm is?” she asked. “People are pretty anxious about him.”

  The figure in the passenger seat turned toward her. “Is that what all the noise’s about?” It was Windsor. “He’s in one of the other trucks. So’s the bride—in case you’re worried about her, Andrea.”

  “Is he okay?” she asked.

  “He’s being looked after. Collected a bang on the head as far as I know. Tell them not to worry.”

  Andrea had a sudden clear memory of looking down from the hillside into the floodlit space around the inflatables and seeing Toorkild standing above the crowd—and then she’d been distracted, and when she’d looked again, Toorkild had gone. She turned back to the body of the car and said, “All be right! Toorkild be in another Elf-Cart. He’s been hurt—” There was an immediate outcry, with Per and Isobel’s voices loud. “No badly! Elven have taken care of him—he be in one of carts behind.”

  “Stay!” Per said. “Stay cart! Let us see him!”

  “Per—I do no ken—”

  “Stay! Stay now!” Her sight was clearing rapidly, and in the light of the following cars’ headlights, she saw Per stand, a figure of darks and grays. He snatched by luck at a stanchion as the car lurched and threw him to one side. He seized the stanchion with his other hand and made to shake it, as if he could stop the MPV by main force.

  Others joined the cry. “Aye, stay, stay!” They obviously weren’t going to be calmed by anything Andrea could say. Leaning forward again, she said urgently, to Windsor, “Can we stop? They want to see Toorkild.”

  “We’ll stop when we get to the tower.”

  “They want to see him now!”

  Windsor glanced around. “Tough shit,” he said.

  The car ground on, traveling at little more than walking pace, inching and growling up horribly steep slopes, swaying and jolting as it struck ruts, creeping down slopes with its brakes on. The frightened, angry people in the car pulled at Andrea’s clothes and jabbered at her. Why didn’t they stop? Where was Toorkild? Where were their other friends, brothers, sons, sisters, daughters? When were they going to stop, when were they going to be able to see them?

  Andrea tried to explain, trying to shout above the noise of the engine and voices. “Be so good, stay seated. You’ll fall out, else.” She could hear someone being sick. “Be so good, be calm. We’ll reach tower soon. There’s nothing to be done until we reach tower.” She had no idea how close they were to the tower, or even in which direction it lay. She didn’t have the sense of direction that had been trained into the 16th siders.

  Per’s eyes were still swollen and sore, but he could see now. He stood in the back of the Elf-Cart, clinging to the stanchion, feeling the cart’s power vibrate through him. But despite its power, it was slow. A man could walk faster. Why were they obeying these Elves, tamely staying in these slow carts? Why was he obeying Elves when his father was missing? He saw another man standing in the back of the following cart. It was Sweet Milk, he was sure. He waved, and Sweet Milk waved back.

  The Elf-Cart slowed even more, to negotiate steep, rocky ground, and Per stepped over the side. Andrea cried out and reached for him but was too late. Landing in a crouch on the turf, Per sprang up, waving his arm and yelling, “Sterkarm!”

  It was all the encouragement the Sterkarms needed. Half of the people in Andrea’s car struggled to their feet and jumped over the side too. Looking back, she saw still others, and even some women, scrambling from the following cars and running forward to join Per. She felt a little like laughing. So much for Windsor’s orders! So much for his “tough shit.”

  Per ran forward, his men running after him. Even though the Elf-Work had left him still a little breathless, it wasn’t hard to overtake the slow-moving car. Turning in front of it, in the light of its lamps, Per spread his arms. “Stay!”

  The driver braked hard and stopped. Behind, the other cars stopped too, and more people jumped down. Even Andrea jumped down.

  Windsor, furious, stood in the passenger seat. “Go around them,” he said to his driver. “Go around!” But there was no road, just a rough track made by horses. T
o go around the people would mean taking the car off the track, and there was no telling what boulders, ditches, or hollows were hidden by the ferns.

  While the driver hesitated, Per came to his side. With his left hand he put a dagger to the driver’s throat, and with his right hand he took the key from the ignition. At first he couldn’t get the key to come out of its place, but in Elf-Land he’d seen Windsor put the key in to make the cart go, and take it out. He knew that the key must come out, and he knew that the cart wouldn’t go without it. After a few seconds of angry tugging and twisting, he found the knack, and the key came free. The cart’s growling and shuddering stopped. Per tossed the key into the air, caught it, and then handed it to Sweet Milk, who was at his shoulder.

  The next car in line was quickly surrounded by Sterkarms, who let Per through to do his trick with the key again. Windsor, watching, leaned against the window and sighed. “Andrea. Keep an eye on the keys, for God’s sake. We don’t want them lost down some rabbit hole.” As Andrea joined the Sterkarms, Windsor stayed in the car. He felt safer surrounded by 21st steel.

  Many people, men and women, but all 16th siders, were clustered around the second car. As Andrea hurried toward it, she could see people climbing into the back and obviously being very careful where they put their feet. They were looking down at something on the car’s floor. Standing very upright in front of the car’s cab was a woman. By the headlights of the third car, Andrea saw that it was Joan. Her face was tight with fear.

  Shoving into the crowd, Andrea pushed her way to the car’s side and looked down. There was someone lying on the floor between the seats. The light from the headlights didn’t reach there, and the faint, gray daylight wasn’t yet strong enough for her to be able to see who it was.

  Per had climbed into the car. He was crouching awkwardly in the little space he had, feeling at the chest of whoever lay on the floor. “Be it Toorkild?” Andrea asked.